


through the night (we are silent)

by Silverwind578



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Assassin Stiles Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Bad Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Bad Parent Sheriff Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slight crossover with Supernatural, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles Stilinski is Pushed Out of the Pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25422289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwind578/pseuds/Silverwind578
Summary: Cut off from the pack, Stiles remembers one very important thing. He doesn’t need anyone. Not since his mother branded him as devil. Not since his father, struggling with the death of his beloved and a hyperactive kid who asked all the wrong questions, found comfort in the bottom of a bottle. Truth is, he’s been alone longer than he’s had someone. And if the latest imposed solitude has been good for one thing, it’s that he’s finally remembered this. That Stiles has lived in the grey since his father handed him a gun and his mother showed him how to shoot. That despite recent events, he is strong, has been shaped and moulded by the cruelty and hardship of carrying the Gajos line. So, when pack loyalties vanish, he does what he was taught. He disappears.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 123
Kudos: 797





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for clicking onto this. Let me know what you think!

Clint is having a bad day.

Actually, screw that, he is having a bad week.

If there is one thing that being an unattached assassin has taught him, it is that kids rarely deserve what people think they did. Eyeing the Stilinski boy through his scope, he cannot see anything that would put him on SHIELD’s radar.

In fact, he thought SHIELD was better than this.

It had been one of the selling points when Fury had approached him. Not that he’d known who he was. All he’d known was that there was someone in his nest and that they were _dangerous_. Well, not as dangerous as him, but he could recognise authority. Fury rattled off a list of benefits _, free medical, a team to watch his back, a chance to do some good in the world_. And then, with the confidence of a man who got what he wanted, he passed over a contract. The ink was drying five minutes later.

Now, three years later, pointing a sniper at an undeserving, innocent kid, Clint wonders where those benefits are. Free medical has come in handy, but the point of having a team is too avoid situation where it’s needed. And Clint does not understand how shooting and abducting a kid is supposed to be good for the world.

He ignores his handler’s growl as he demands, _again_ , for more information. Clint understands the need for secrets, but if they want him to shoot this kid, not knowing why, they have another thing coming.

“Hawkeye, report.”

“Glad to see we’re now using our big people words, Agent Munder,” he snipes back, ignoring the resulting growl and snap of teeth.

“The target is still at primary location, no suspicious movement, awaiting further orders.” Look, he can be professional.

The line clicks silent and Clint takes that as permission to continue watching.

He spends the rest of the day watching the Stilinski household. He watches as, even though it is summer break, no one comes to visit.

He doesn’t know what has happened, but something has. Because Stilinski’s file is almost entwined with Scott McCall’s, but in the last five days, there has been no communication between the two. But the intelligence shows nothing wrong between the two.

The next day, Clint watches as the Sheriff arrives home, uniform wrinkled and a six pack in his arms. The man pulls the dinner that Stilinski made earlier that day, chucks it in the microwave and takes a swig out of the first bottle. He watches as he systemically downs the bottles without even acknowledging the boy sat in his room. The one with skin too pale and not enough meat on his bones. _Clint knows what that looks like_. The man, because he is not a father stumbled around the kitchen, dumping his plate in the sink, leaving the bottles strewn across the table. He collapses into bed with all the grace of a drunk and is out within minutes.

Within minutes, the boy is downstairs, cleaning the mess his father left behind. He grabs his father’s uniform, tossing it into the washing machine, before grabbing a fresh one from outside and hanging it on the Sheriff’s door. Even from across the street, Clint can spot a well-practised routine when he sees one.

Clint clicks open the comm line with finality, a sneer curling on his lips.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, feral with anger, “if you’re going to go after kids, at least make sure they deserve it, you bastard.” He pauses, _in for a penny, in for a pound._ “And fuck you Nick Fury.”

He tosses the comm. He’d find his own way back to base.

\--

“His trust issues have trust issues, Cheese.” _He’s more likely to burn us at this point._

“Mmm, so do mine, Marcus. It’ll be a match made in heaven.” _I know, but look where we ended up, shouldn’t we gift that to others?_

“More like hell.” A pause. “He’s been here 3 years, and no one has ever listened to what he’s got to say.” _He’s got a story to tell and a life to live. Too bad people only see the pretty face and impeccable shooting scores._

“Just because you hire incompetent agents doesn’t mean I’ll make the same mistakes.” _Trust me to know when to speak and when to listen._

“He could be one of our greatest assets, Agent Coulson.” _There was a reason why I hired him._

“I know, Director Fury.” _Thank you._

A day later, Agent Clint Barton was assigned permanently to Agent Phil Coulson. Two years later, they said _I do_ under the watch eye of Nick Fury. They never looked back.

\--

Stiles leaves in an all-consuming quiet. There is no fanfare, no tears at the airport, no lingering hugs and touches. It is just him. A lonely teenaged boy in a world that no longer cares for him. His mother lies across the reserve, giving life to those she left behind, his father buries himself in paperwork and the bottom of the bottle and the once strong pack bonds have all dissipated into nothing.

Distrust etches itself onto every line in the pack and despite their (few) words of comfort, Stiles knows they blame him. after all, there must be a reason for why the Nogitsune chose him. An innate darkness not present in an ever-loving Scott or a still naïve Allison. Because it isn’t enough for Stiles to be the _human_ of the pack, he is the damaged, human one. The one that’s own mother could see the darkness within him.

He palms at the knife strapped to his thigh, his last gift from his mother before she named him devil and tried to kill him.

 _It’s a good thing,_ he muses, _that they’d cut off her underground contacts once it became clear how far gone she was._

Who knew if he’d still be standing here if it wasn’t for that? The contacts that his mother had were made through unbreaking loyalty and they would not have hesitated to behead the prince if that’s what the Queen wished for. It could not happen now, his mother is many years too gone, but 10-year-old Stiles believed that she would never hurt him. After all, they were Queen and Prince, nothing could tear them apart; aside from a shrinking brain and a spark that refused to listen.

 _It needs to happen_ , it would croon, softly, an unresponsive mother laying in front of him. As if his mother’s death was the only way for him to succeed. The half-trained spark and the Gajos spirit that lied within the boy could conquer realms, but death was not among them. His mother passed, despite Stiles’ _crying_ and _pleading_.

He devoured the texts left behind. Then, with no one to stop him, he learnt more about his family, his lineage and he fell in live with the beauty and grace of the Gajos line. His spark, half tame half feral; it grieved for his mother, but didn’t understand his father’s abandonment. Caught between his love for his father and his spark’s hate, he grappled for control. They compromised, Stiles will defend his father to his dying day, because he is his, _his to hurt, his to protect_ , even though his isn’t always his fathers. A morality in the grey suits him better anyway.

His spark fed off the chaotic nature of his mind. Too often, his mind swirled and whisked him away, caught in a daydream where, if he wasn’t careful, it could become reality. He twitched and flailed because if he didn’t, the magic built up. It consumed him in a battle that no one could see. A constant war of must move, must expel led to a diagnosis of ADHD and meds that didn’t work, burnt up by his magic the second they dissolved into his bloodstream.

He learnt, without his mother as a distraction, why he is different. Why other children don’t know six other languages, self-defence and magic. Most children don’t have an assassin as a parent and none are from the Gajos line. Because the Gajos line meant knowing six languages and not knowing which one was your first. It meant picking up a gun and already knowing how to disassemble it. It meant knowing how to pick your fights and _always_ winning. But to 10-year-old Stiles, it meant a perpetually drunk father and a mother scattered across the Beacon Hill’s preserve. To an 18-year-old Stiles with a body that he doesn’t recognise and _a mind that is not his own_ , it means survival. A way out.

Packing up is easy. He quietly takes his last exams, exceeding expectations as usual. He knows that he can get into any college he chooses. No one notices when Stiles stops showing up to class. So he stops trying to always be there for the pack. Weekly gaming sessions with Scott dial off into nothingness and the messages for pack meetings never seem to reach his phone. Social interaction is not something he’s needed before, being raised in a house with a ghost for a father has ensured that, but the last few years have made him complacent. Constant company, constant messages, only it took him too long to realise that it was never about him, only what he could offer.

The plane is loud and bustling as Stiles enters it. A contrast to the quiet he’s surrounded him with recently.

The mother and daughter next to him smile as he sits down but he’s lost to the commotion of the airplane around him. Just another normal college kid. But he’s never been that. Always too inquisitive, too loud, too twitchy. Never the one you could count on to blend in.

Oh well. It’s all just part of the mask he’s been wearing since he found his mum tied up and dead men surrounding her. His first introduction into the life of a Gajos. A few unsavoury traits dialled up to 10, rambling too much too fast, always sarcastic and dialling down on others, people often revealed more than what they intended if you just _watched_ and the secrets you could find.

_Was it really that hard to believe in werewolves, Scott?_

And if it makes people underestimate him and their eyes gloss over him as they assess threats, it’s only that much better.

Throwing a glance around the cabin, Stiles eyes the people settling in for a necessary but annoying flight. Draining his spark in an effort to purify the Nemeton last night probably wasn’t the smartest choice, but at least his magic was low enough that he didn’t feel the need for incessant fidgeting. He hoped, with the power he’d thrown around last night, that the Nemeton would never be corrupted again. If it was, well, Stiles would be on the first flight back here.

The idea of sleep is tempting but surrounded by strangers, he knew it wouldn’t come. Grabbing a notebook out of his bad, he settles in for a long 5 hours. He traces the rune etched on the front cover and is comforted, knowing that no one would be able to read what’s written. Electronics are only so safe when people could hack, read your mind and take your face. No one looks for paper these days when finding information and Stiles intends to take full advantage of that.

He has soon filled the notebook out. At the moment, it is a list of contacts, his mother are in the front, with his following. It is the start of something beautiful. Something his own. A non-biased view of the supernatural, something not scarred by the hate and bigotry of the Argents. It is not a bestiary, there would be no morals in this. Just facts. Ways to help, ways to harm, ways to kill. It may be blank, but Stiles is willing to put in the effort. Information collection and trade is one of his strengths.

He glances at the clock and sighs. There is still over three hours left of the flight. He spends the rest of the flight meditating. It is a vital skill for a spark, for any magic user really, and even more so for him. The trance he slips into allows him to connect with his spark. On good days, he claims its half tame but on bad days, it is half feral. Meditation grounds him, allows him and his spark to communicate and compromise.

Sparks lack the control and finesse of other magic types, part of the reason they are so rare. Their magic is flashy, not easily hidden and easily feared. The witch trials have some truth behind them.

While Stiles does not have a plan for when he lands, he has the skills to get him far. At this point, he would take living rough overspending another minute in Beacon Hills, another moment with the pack throwing distrustful looks at him. As if he couldn’t sense the malignance and hate that pours off them. It was bad enough that he’d _relaxed_ enough, _trusted_ enough, _loved_ enough to get himself possess, but he had forgotten at his core who he really is.

The black-and-white nature of Scott, his unwillingness to do anything wrong had landed Stiles firmly in the white, somewhere he’d never expected to end up. The Nogitsune had knocked loose the last barrier and the abandonment of the pack had ensured it would never come back. This was who Stiles was, nothing would ever change that, come between him and his goals again.

Even if his legacy has been left unexplained, he owes it to his mum, himself and all the shadows that came before him to be the best he could be. He knows he won’t find answers trapped in the stifling town of Beacon Hills. Not when his mother’s underground web stretches so much further.

It is his legacy and he’s not going to let anyone keep it from him. And, from what he remembers, it’s like he was being trained for it. And if there’s anything that Stiles has never been, it’s mediocre. If this is his inheritance, he’ll embrace it with open arms.

The flight lands and Stiles, although he has nowhere to go, feels positive about this. Society is somewhat growing out of their witch hunt phase and the remaining few sparks know how to hide, conceal and _thrive._ And well, Stiles is just trying to carry on the family tradition. Hiding in plain sight- should be easy enough in New York, right? There is enough weirdness there to cancel out any that Stiles would bring.

It isn’t as though he’s looking for trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! The amount of support for this is overwhelming and I'm so glad you are all enjoying it so much. I have gone over chapter 1 a bit and changed a few grammatical things, but nothing major. Hope you like this chapter and let me know what you think!

The Hales poison everything they touch.

Stiles is sure they don’t mean to, but they still do.

There is no denying that Beacon Hills went to hell when Derek and Laura returned.

That the entwining of the supernatural and Beacon Hills injected a darkness into the town that they would never recover from.

That although the Nemeton itself is a beacon, the power willingly given to it by a strong, vibrant pack makes it stronger. It draws in more creatures, more supernatural.

_There is a reason the Stilinski’s chose Beacon Hills. Just like Stiles chose New York._

Because while Beacon Hills _lives in_ the supernatural, New York _is_ supernatural. Its history is vibrant, full of magic and lodged in tradition.

It is captivating, in the same way you can’t look away from a train wreck.

Captivating enough, that Stiles, running on the adrenaline and fear of finally escaping Beacon Hills, does not notice it isn’t just history until three days later. That the captivating _beauty_ and _horror_ are present because it is all still happening.

The city is dormant, but its occupants are not.

They hunt and prowl in a city that moves for no one.

The wolves at his front and back are evidence of that. That the chilling press of magic isn’t just remnants of a culture now lost. That the glowing eyes are not a trick of the light.

_That there is no way for Stiles to ever escape the Hales_.

Because New York, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, is poisoned as well.

Figuratively, of course.

He doubts Laura or a younger Derek had the will to ruin a city just for survival.

_It is funny how things change._

The fangs in front of him flash in the early morning light and he sighs. Laura Hale, it seems, despite the anguish of broken and forever lost pack bonds, could not keep her fangs to herself.

He wants to scream at the unfairness of it all, but he had learnt from a young age that life was never fair ( _-a dying mother screeches and wails and the bottles pile up and Stiles must keep going-_ ).

History is history apart from when it isn’t and he rages. He’s seen the territory borders, felt the press of magic and didn’t think anything of it. 

Except he should have.

“Why do you smell of Derek?” A girl demands, eyes flashing tellingly blue.

A laugh builds and he is helpless to repress it. A second pack of broken and discarded people that were left behind

Pack is pack. He was once pack, but never again. _Complacency is too good a killer_. But for wolves, pack is essential. Pack is closer than family and the first thing Derek should have done was introduce, or even tell them about it.

Jesus Christ, he isn’t even a wolf, let alone a born one and he has a better grip on pack dynamics than the rest.

He laughs again. _Honestly, fuck the Hales_.

He exhales slowly and ignores the claws now digging into his neck.

“I got screwed over one too many times by wolves so I left. Not illegal last I checked.”

He relaxes against their hold. _Let them think they have the upper hand_.

The claws scratch and he winces. He pushes the reactive lashing out of his spark down and calms the fire that flows through his veins.

He smiles at the girl in front, “I hope you’re not harming an unarmed human on pack territory.” He pries the claws out of his neck as the wolf behind tenses and Stiles quickly side steps his attempt to grab him.

A sub sonic growl rumbles through the park and he tenses – _he really doesn’t want to fight_ – before the shadows morph and disfigure and the wolves are pushed away from him.

“Samir. Abigail. Don’t. We can’t afford anymore split blood.”

A woman stands off to the side, her pale skin almost swallowed by the pulsing of shadows around her.

A shiver runs through him as her icy glare focuses on him. There is quiet. An empty nothingness where there should be something. He flinches and the glares slides off him and onto the wolves.

Their eyes flash a supernaturally bright glow, but they acquiesce.

Warmth rushes back into his veins. Everything is ok. Everything _is_ ok.

They make a formidable sight, the three of them. Stiles can see why they have survived without an alpha for so long.

“Look, I was… acquainted, let’s say, with the Hales.” _Lie._

“I didn’t want to be involved with the supernatural.” _Lie._

“I’m no one special.” _A truth sometimes, a lie others._

The wolves don’t even blink as he speaks. It is amazing what a mountain ash tattoo can do.

He ignores the silent conversation that they have and surveys the area. It is early morning and the few that have bothered to rise are not paying any attention to their little confrontation.

Hiding in plain sight, as usual.

The shadow woman leans heavily into the other girl and Stiles watches as the both saturate each other in their scents.

It is odd, seeing actual wolf behaviour in werewolves.

Peter was the only one who exhibited wolf behaviour, even on the outskirts of the pack, he found ways to scent, hunt, provide, protect. All things Scott should be doing, but wasn’t. For all that he was a true alpha, he had no clue what being a werewolf entailed.

The wolves seem to reach a consensus and the blonde turns towards him.

“Is he alive?” She asks.

_Derek,_ Stiles assumes.

He nods.

“Well fuck him.”

“Abigail!”

“No,” she snaps, swirling to face them, “Jesus Christ, it has been _over two years_.”

She breathes heavily, the air condensing in front of her.

“We could have died. _We thought he died_. And he didn’t even once, _once_ , ask if we were ok. Check that having three different alphas over three months didn’t harm us, turn us omega.”

She exhales angrily and from the looks the others are giving her, this is something new.

He does not blame her, though, because he knows what it’s like to be left behind by an alpha. He is surprised it took this long to come up.

Abandonment leads to resentment and anger. She probably understands why Derek left, but her wolf doesn’t. Doesn’t understand why he left and why he didn’t come back.

And the problem with heightened emotions is that the wolf is always at the forefront. It’s ready to snarl, growl and tear the things it doesn’t understand, the things it thinks are too blame.

Like Stiles smelling of an alpha that abandoned her.

She lurches forward with a snarl forming on her lips. The others grab at her, but she twists out of their grip. There is something feral in her eyes, heightened by the ridges and fangs on her face. She paces towards him, like a predator towards prey.

_It’s a good thing Stiles hasn’t been prey in a long time_.

She stumbles to a halt, claws coming to scratch at an invisible barrier. She races backwards, stumbling again into the barrier. She snaps and growls at him, and his mountain ash barrier, but she can’t get across it.

The witch-girl doesn’t seem willing to help either.

“Last I checked, Derek Hale was a blue-eyed beta who sacrificed his alpha spark to save his dying sister. He’s also majorly traumatised by his uncle murdering his sister, your former alpha.” The pack seems to be listening now. “And yes, he was a shitty alpha, that, I can agree fully with you.”

He leaves it at that, walking off before they can begin to process what he said.

He hides his scent as he leaves, hoping it’s enough to keep them off his trail. He doesn’t want to deal with another mess the Hales caused.

Once he’s out of sight, he drops the mountain ash barrier. Hopefully, the wolf, Abigail, has calmed a bit. The other two should be able to explain it to her.

Stiles continues his run. Running, when it’s not for his life, is freeing. There are only his shoes against the sidewalk, his heavy breathing in the air. He has taken to leaving his phone at home as well. He gets lost in the city and explores at his own pace. His spark takes him where it wants anyway.

It’s also one of the best ways to find supernatural places.

With no contacts of his own, no references to use, it is vital for him to discover these places. He has no hope of thriving in New York if he can’t network properly.

He takes a sharp left down an alley, following the tug in his sternum.

It is dark, considering the time of day. That is the first thing Stiles notices. The bins cast shadows along the walls and trash is strewn across the ground. It is well treaded, the cardboard and paper almost mush beneath his feet.

When he focuses, he can feel the echoes of fear and helplessness pressing down on him.

Something terrible has happened here.

Trailing a lone hand along the wall, Stiles carefully picks his way down the alley.

He is soon enveloped in darkness. There are less boot marks down this way. The roar of traffic has disappeared.

There is one set of prints that keeps drawing his attention. They are fresh, hurried, almost frantic in the way they dodge over the alley.

The prints stop, the wall above them smeared in blood. Tracing the outline, Stiles can see chips in the bricks from where a bullet or knife ricocheted.

A door slams open ahead and Stiles startles, instinctively grabbing for the knife strapped to his thigh. Guns are too noisy, even in the bustle of the city.

“What do you mean you lost it?” A voice demands. “How can you lose it, it’s only the most dangerous and terrifying thing in the-.” Another door slams. “-fury, you know, the big scary thing that we can’t afford to lose!”

“Like you could do better. I was pinned to a wall and nearly bled out, ok! I just hope I haven’t been cursed.” The other man snorts, then laughs, “God, if only they knew what was out there.”

Stiles does know what’s out there and now he’s praying that they don’t mean one of the three furies.

He crouches down in the shadows. He rests lightly on all fours, ready to spring into action if the fury comes back, or he is discovered. Their conversation trails off into murmurs and Stiles shifts forward. His hand drags across the ground, sticking to something on the ground. He swears softly, ripping his hand away, bringing the sticky thing with him. He squints in the darkness and makes out a stitched emblem. He stuffs it into his waistband, congealed blood on torn cloth is a big clue.

As the footsteps approach Stiles’ half-hidden crouched form, he turns and leaves silently, sticking to the shadows and letting his black running wear do the job.

Once out of the alley and safely tucked away in a bustling café, Stiles conjures one of his notebooks and makes a note of the abandoned Hale pack, the odd conversation and the blood drenched cloth drying uncomfortably to his stomach.

He glances out of the café window. In between the rush of morning traffic, a glimmer of magic catches his eye. He sighs, before adding another note.

It’s almost as though he never left Beacon Hills.

\--

Now he’s aware of the Hale pack, it becomes obvious that this is wolf territory. It’s in the way he’s warned against visiting the forest at night. How certain areas of the city _feel_ more dangerous, more alive than others.

A wolf pack, no matter how small, gives life to a territory. It thrives under the guardianship of a pack, even one without an alpha. Their claim may be small but it’s theirs all the same.

It makes identifying the magic easier. Magic leaves traces, both on the caster and the environment.

Fortunately, for Stiles, he has ways of getting around that ( _belief is a powerful tool_ ). Unfortunately for the witch girl, her magic leaves a residue that reminds Stiles of things he’d rather leave behind ( _ice baths and sacrifices and death and void_ ).

It has been a week since he first encountered her magic and he is no closer to discovering why it reminds him of that. Because every time he walks through pack territory, he is doused with terror. His own, not others, which means her magic is clean. Well, as clean as magic used to defend and protect can be.

Because the imprint of magic around the city shows where and how it’s been used. And her magic is a tool she uses for the betterment of the territory. Even if their magic doesn’t agree, their motivations do.

The press of her magic is so unique that Stiles wants to teach her how to hide, how to bury it deep down, where no creatures can trace it, where no hunters can follow. Because Stiles has learnt the hard way that you can appear human, be human apart from a small spark of magic that runs through your veins, and they do not care. To them, you are a traitor or a tool. Because there is no way for humans to be pack ( _lie_ ), that pack bonds don’t exist between humans ( _lie_ ).

He fiddles with the cloth lying in front of him. He eyes his notebook in front of him. Solving one of these issues is less terror inducing than the other. Besides, the witch girl hasn’t even bothered him yet.

\--

The jeep turns up on a Wednesday, completely out of the blue.

The tow truck driver just shrugs and smiles through Bobby’s questions. As though he delivers unwanted vehicles to strangers every day.

He probably does, if the truth be known. The underground, combined with the supernatural, will never cease to surprise Bobby.

He grunts as the man shoves a clipboard in front of him. He reads the paper before him and signs the dotted line.

The tow truck shudders its way out of his driveway, swallowing the happy wishes of the driver.

Bobby circles the jeep, shuddering at the copious amounts of duct tape holding it together. There is a note on the dash and Bobby opens the glove box for the keys. The engine splutters to life after a few tries.

_Now to figure out what the hell to do with it_.

He’s nearly out of the car when a sheet of paper hanging out of the sun visor catches his eyes. He sighs, before sitting back down. The paper crinkles as he unfolds it. He squints against the evening sun and reads what appears to be a note written in yellow highlighter.

_Favour owed to Claudia Gajos paid._

_Look after Roscoe._

“Balls!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around for this update, hope you enjoy!

Cassandra wakes with a groan, listens to the echo and quickly falls silent.

She shifts, feels the ropes press against her skin and her eyes snap open.

Squinting against the harsh light above her, she looks around the room. Spotting the red berries and iron imbued into the walls, Cassandra sighs, going lax in her bonds.

However unfortunate, there is nothing she can do for her blocked power except wait.

Doesn’t mean she has to make it easy for them.

Testing her restraints, she swears as they don’t give.

At least she’s not dead. Alive means they need something from her.

She hits her head against the wall behind her.

“Shit,” she mutters.

A laugh echoes around the room. Cassandra flinches and struggles to get free.

“Well, aren’t you just so eager to get started,” a voice drawls behind her.

Someone snickers, before replying, “well, hanging around weres, what could you expect?”

They chuckle and footsteps drag towards her. She refuses to cower, though, and focuses on the shadows.

Squinting, she can see two silhouettes. She can’t make out any more than that, but it’s ok. She’s alive, so she will eventually see them.

One of the men moves into the light. He twirls a knife between his fingers and smirks at her instinctive flinch. The blade catches in the light, almost blinding her.

They must be hunters, the iron in the walls, the smeared berries, the mountain ash and silver blade all point to it.

They know about werewolves and that she runs with them.

Whatever insinuations they make, Cassandra knows different. They are her pack, they will not abandon her. She will be found. There _is_ no other option.

She smiles, despite the situation. Her pack bonds, however muted, still thrum against her sternum.

She is warm.

The blade flashes.

She screams.

The men laugh.

\--

Stiles breathes in, pauses, places an unflinching finger on the trigger and _exhales_. The bullet flies true and the man, Arnold McDevitt, slumps over his dinner, almost as though he fell asleep.

The gunshot dissipates into nothing, the muddy hills of Mississippi absorbing it as it does to so much.

Stiles packs up in silence, ignores the non-existent trembling in his fingers and disappears. He leaves no sign he was there.

The man, when discovered, will be discovered with files and files of wilful ignorance. The lives of the girls will never be bought back, but it is one less corrupt cop on the streets.

\--

New York obscures, blotting out the remarkable and unremarkable, leaving a layer of normal wrapped around it.

It is a perfect solution for Stiles. He does not want to be known as Stiles Stilinski, _the boy who runs with wolves_. He wants to be known for more than that.

Running with wolves is not special.

Surviving the run _is_ special. It is picking up the pieces when all you want to do is cry, patching up the cuts and bruises that heal in seconds on the wolves while they laugh and comfort each other and leave you in the corner that makes it special.

It is enduring the pain and hurt of pack but _not_ pack and managing to live, even if his living involves leaving. There is no other way to survive Beacon Hills.

However great for Stiles, obscurity stifles progress. Progress towards his mother’s empire, which Stiles has learnt it’s dissolved.

The book of contacts may as well be empty.

Too many have retired, too many didn’t know, didn’t care about who he is, too many are dead.

The Gajos empire is gone, Stiles Stilinski is a ghost and Little Red is even less than that.

Men don’t tell secrets from beyond the grave.

The job here in Mississippi is a chance to break beyond the monotony of New York. A chance to get a little closer to his mother, his empire, his legacy.

He checks into a little rundown motel, slings the rifle case onto the bed and sighs at the ignorance of people.

_Honestly, a freelance musician?_

But it works, the girl at reception is none the wiser and Stiles has an alibi. Not that he would be a suspect.

Currently, Stiles Stilinski is in New York, setting up his apartment and getting his life together. Mark Hanson, however, is a freelance musician trying to escape the oppressive ways of his family and backpacking across America.

Ignoring the bed and promise of sleep, he shoots off a message confirming the kill and grins giddily at the ceiling.

He bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes flickering between the bed and his jacket.

With a joyous laugh, he throws his jacket over his shoulders and slams the door behind him

\--

Stiles runs until he’s breathless, then walks until his thoughts stop spinning and he can actually _think_.

He is giddy in a way he hasn’t been in months, years even. It is freeing, to be someone who doesn’t matter and yet is capable of making change in the world.

He walks until he’s guided to a 24/7 diner, and smiles at the rundown, but still cheery façade.

The waitress smiles as he enters. The diner is not saturated in nostalgia and memories; Stiles orders the curly fries with a smile.

The other man raises his hand in greeting as Stiles walks passed. Stiles nods in acknowledgement before continuing to the back corner.

Here, he has line of sight and no one can approach from behind. Stiles hums softly, tracing nonsense runes into the napkins. They will never amount to anything, but his spark is always happy to create.

The phone pings next to him and he raises an eyebrow.

A smile curves its way onto his face.

_Looks like he’s going to Illinois._

\--

Illinois goes to hell the second he passes the border. The truck, bought under Mark Hanson’s name, shudders to a stop and refuses to start. Not even the gentle (and not so gentle) coaxing of Stiles’ spark can get it started again.

He sighs, leaves the truck on the side of the road, grabs his pack and starts walking.

The phone pings again, sending through more information.

He frowns, reading through it.

Another assassination. He drums his fingers against the screen as he considers it.

Shrugging slightly, he sends through his confirmation and continues walking. The limited information he has paints her in a bad light. It won’t be a struggle to kill her.

\--

A picture is not much to go on, even for Stiles. There is no magic imbued into photos. They are a still life that does not capture the essence of the moment or person.

Jacquelyn Francis, if one is to go off this photo, is not the evil villain of the show, in fact, that would be Stiles, for even considering murdering her.

But the truth is, Jacquelyn Francis is not a good person.

Stiles circles the room, smiling politely as glasses get dumped on his tray. He turns back towards the kitchen, dumping the tray, before picking up another and heading back outside.

“Champagne, Mademoiselle?”

She nods and Stiles slips the glass down next to her, circling the table, nodding and smiling as they ignore him.

People always underestimate the waiters.

She sips daintily as Stiles walks away assuredly.

Jacquelyn leans over to the man on her left, laughs and pushes the glass into his hands.

“This tastes a little odd, don’t you think? Be a dear and throw it out for me.” She pauses, “and fire the catering staff while you’re at it, won’t you?”

Stiles does not pause, continues walking, all whilst inwardly swearing. There was no way she knew that they were poisoned.

He reaches the kitchens, strips off the suffocating bowtie, before realising the meaning of her words.

“Fuck.” He swears, spinning and grabbing the bowtie, quickly doing it back up.

He ignores the frightened stares of the cowering workers and swears again, groaning as he reaches for another tray.

He fixes his polite smile onto his face and walks back out into the ballroom. The tray under his hands does not rattle, nor does his nerves.

\--

The end of the night nears and Stiles watches as guests slowly relocate to hotel rooms. They dawdle, all of them hoping to catch the attention of Jacquelyn Francis.

Soon, the room empties, and it is just the catering and cleaning staff.

Stiles eyes the faces around the room, their twitchiness, the bloodshot eyes and shaking hands and sighs. Long and hard.

A door slams and they all flinch.

Stiles turns to the girl next to him, asks, “how old are you?”

She looks at him, all skin and bone and trembling hands, straightens her back. She stares ahead, at the man who slipped through the door.

“14.”

Stiles nods, rolls his shoulders and strides forward.

“Right,” the man calls out, voicing carrying over the silent room. “I would have thought you lot would be grateful, giving you a place to sleep, something to eat.”

His voice raises, until he’s shouting, reverberating through the room. The staff shrink back, some try to slip out the side doors, only to discover they’ve been locked.

Panic swells in the room, murmurs break out and through it all, Stiles continues walking forward.

The man blusters, face turning red as he notices Stiles.

Stiles grins, feral and untamed, and lets the knife fly true.

It sinks into his eye and he collapses, an unheard scream on his lips.

The children shout, panic and naivety boiling over into chaos.

Stiles reaches the body, yanks the knife out of him, ignoring the spray of blood that follows. He picks the gun up and fires two shots into the ceiling.

The children fall silent, eyes watching him fearfully as he tucks it in his pants and wipes the knife on a serviette.

“Listen here,” he snaps, “I know most of you aren’t here by choice but between me and him-” He nudges the body, “I’m the better choice.”

He stops, looking around the room.

“I can get us out.”

He looks to the few older children. They look back, fearful yet determined.

Stiles nods, paces forward into the kitchen and grabs the knives. He runs a finger along the blade. They are sharp enough; it will have to do.

He passes the knives out to the ones who aren’t shaking and smiles as they instinctively move into groups of protectants and unprotected.

There are no words needed, they know what they almost became, that this is their only chance out.

Stiles twirls his knife between his fingers, before pressing it, hilt first, into the palm of his shadow.

She stares back, wide eyed, but no nerves.

It slots into her hand, the blade gleaming under the lights and she grins, wide and unfiltered at him.

Stiles nods, tapping the blade with a finger.

“Don’t worry, I want it back.”

She nods, sidling over to another group.

Stiles sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

_God, he hates child traffickers._

Stiles unlocks the doors by shooting the handles off. Hopefully, if heard, the gunshots will be taken as the man following Jacquelyn’s orders.

He herds the group into a hallway, double checking no one is coming running. He shoots a guard and hurries his group forward.

Some stumble, some don’t, but they all stick to him like glue.

He wants to laugh, but he understands. A lot of them were taken from their beds, their homes, ripped away from any sort of safety.

Well, maybe not understand, because Stiles didn’t know a life other than this, but he can empathise.

An alarm sounds as they reach the front door. Stiles forces the group out of the door, yelling at them to run.

He whips around, shoots the first few guards that come down the stairs and turns around to watch the remainder of the children scatter into the night.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and faces the stares, gun steady as he aims.

He shoots until the gun clicks over empty and throws it to the side. He palms the holster that normally holds his knife.

He shakes his head, grabbing a gun next to a body and fires repeatedly towards the stairs. Checking his runes are still active, Stiles backs towards the door and runs into the street, disappearing into the shadows.

\--

Jacquelyn is a difficult person to kill. It is easy enough to track her down; she flits in and out of events as she pleases, leaving a wake of admirers and contacts behind her.

She laughs with philanthropists, tours her not-for-profits and then goes and makes her millions in child trafficking.

Stiles lines her up through his sights and presses the trigger with relish.

It flies true, as it always does, blowing a hole through the centre of her head. The boy screams, jerking backwards and twisting out of her grip.

He runs, the smart thing.

Stiles relaxes, following the path of the boy, swinging past towards Jacquelyn’s body, only to frown at the empty space.

The blood splatter is still there but the body is missing.

A hand enters his field of vision through the scope and it picks up the bloody bullet. Jacquelyn’s face appears next, blood still running down it, though the bullet wound rapidly closes.

Stiles curses and shoots again. This time, she ducks, supernaturally fast.

She laughs, spinning around to face Stiles.

 _She shouldn’t be able to see him_.

She does though. She smirks, bringing his bullet up to her face and inhaling deeply. A wicked grin carves its way onto her face.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes and quickly disassembles the rifle.

Jacquelyn’s grin widens and she waves, disappearing into the night.

Stiles checks his scent blocker rune and bolts. But he’s too late.

He skids to a stop in front of his hired car.

The bullet glistens on the roof and Stiles inhales, the lingering sense of death pervading his nose.

Stiles sighs and checks the note.

_Better luck next time, little spark._

He burns the note with a tap of his finger and slips the bullet into his pocket.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, grabs his phone and calls the only number he’s programmed into this phone.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

\--

“Hey, old friend. I’ve got a job for you and Roscoe in Illinois if you’re interested. Give me a call—”

The person stops, a screech of metal can be heard through the phone and the call ends, a grunt the final thing echoing across the line.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading. If you enjoyed, let me know by leaving kudos, comments or visiting me at [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/silverwind578)


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